


think red. think him.

by dantay



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M, The Author Regrets Nothing, Things That Happen When You're Alone With the Person You Like in the Gym Post-Practice, just third year atsusuna kissing and making out, makeout sessions, this fic is for me but u can enjoy it too ig
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29941161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dantay/pseuds/dantay
Summary: Atsumu laughs, places a hand under Rintarou’s chin.the undiscovered art of kissing your almost-lover.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	think red. think him.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has been uploaded before, but i decided to take it down along with my other fics to undergo a bit of heavy editing. it's back now and i hope you enjoy!

For hypothetical reasons, let’s say that Suna Rintarou knows Atsumu like how the waves play a game of kiss and chase to recognize all the idiosyncrasies about every particle of sand.

So, he knows when he sees Atsumu put up a facade to relish the burn of post-match victory.

Rintarou sees the clenched fists, knuckles white. Atsumu exhales like he’s emptying out ocean-filled lungs. They bow to the crowds.

The distaste of victory splashes through like the swirls of black ink when the droplets find themselves on wet sand. This rarity of an emotion showing itself has been granted to Rintarou one too many times.

Atsumu’s hands stay undeniably still after games like those. The whiplash would just hit him like a bullet to the back, as Rintarou remembers being told in murmurs under the shaded comforts of a tree on a summer day— sweat trickling down his back and sticking to his shirt, his hands sticky sweet from the juice of the watermelon. The almost-watery taste lingered on the skin of his lips. Something close to french vanilla and a hint of strawberry interlocks with it.

The weight of a hand on his lower back brings him back.

Rintarou feels a certain coldness now even through the fabric of his jersey. Something that sticks like blood on snow even as one of Atsumu’s hands decides and finds itself on the small of his back while they walk away from the prestige of the too-alive court. 

He looks at him— a glance, a whisper of an action and sees yellow hair almost plastered with sweat. Skin gleaming, a slight flush high on his cheeks and the tip of his nose. Atsumu licks his lips, and he looks back at him like he’s somewhere near the ends of the universe or something.

  
  


✦

  
  


If Rintarou were to indulge himself, willingly and without so much thought, in the saccharine taste of Atsumu’s french vanilla lips or in the hands that scorch his skin, then it would be without a doubt Rintarou’s own decision. A conscious deliberate choice.

  
  


✦

  
  


Emotions take time to solidify, and Rintarou only crushes them to gold fairy dust. Let them leave evidence of their absolution on his lashes, under his nails, on the pink of his lips. Besides, what is the nakedness of emotions if not a sign of life?

He slings his bag over his shoulder and steps out of the locker room with muscles carrying a slight burn of satisfaction, hair still slightly wet when he runs a hand through it. The practice match made them too immersed, ignoring the built-up sweat and steady soreness during it.

They won though.

But, the August breeze runs over him, dripping with refreshment. Rintarou indulges in it as he walks. The phone inside his pocket pings three times after his alarm sounds off before he decides to pull it out of his pocket. Three messages from Osamu glare at him. The time is 17:54— the sun is about to set soon. 

Rintarou swipes on the message notifications just as he stands by the gym entrance and pauses. 

> **FROM: resident food enthusiast**
> 
> [17:53] is tsumu still at the gym?  
>  [17:53] can you drag him home for me. i’ll buy you a chuppet

_Okay_ , he thinks. Eyes rereading the pixel words, teeth biting the inside of his cheek. He can feel his eyebrows pinching because Osamu is, factually, a jerk and his best friend. But, for a more gracious description, he is as much as an awakened fox like his brother; there are no better words or poetry to describe him.

He’d look at Rintarou, secrets dissected, like he already found his blood staining snow and body being engulfed in frostbite. Someone that comes as the best player in Rintarou’s complicated little game. Hide Rintarou’s secrets and seek under the moonlight he shall. 

Running as fast as he can, then he’s facing metal eyes and metal dread.

So, Rintarou looks up instead to the comfort brought by the faint sounds of balls hitting the floor. Of course, there is the enchantment of volleyball, the sun itching to let go of the throne, and Atsumu— mid-serve with eyes glowing with some sort of emotion.

“Atsumu,” he calls out, voice loud against the slam of the ball. He’s toeing off his shoes, dropping his bag to the floor. His hand coils tighter around his phone. Atsumu ignores him.

They’re alone in the gym with the sun slowly letting go of its position as the royalty in the sky while the moon waits for its cue to steal the crown of gold. The vividness in Atsumu’s eyes do not lose even against the rays of sunset red worming its way through every crevice in the four corners this space provides. It’s always the fucking sun rivaling him.

Rintarou pays attention, gathers as much information. 

Here is a boy irrevocably enslaved by the sport. Suna scrunches his nose at the stench of absolute emotion as the setter retrieves another ball, preparing for another serve. 

Atsumu was not Icarus, a boy of greater things than his fall of hubris. He was, perhaps, a monster among monsters that can ride the Chariot of the Sun if he so wishes to. So, Rintarou brings out his phone, wielding it similar to how Atsumu wields the volleyball in.

Better be prepared.

“Atsumu,” he says, this time louder and clearer. He’s closer now. Atsumu still dismisses him as if he was just a small petal flying along the gust of wind, and _ah_ is Rintarou prepared to play this, king against king in the board of the setting sun and volleyball. 

See, there is this thing an almost-lover retains in their minds. Tiny bits of information, if you may. Some have the capability of making them bite their lips enough to draw blood; others ensure warmth is injected further into the soul. All from the rawness of emotion drawn from an almost-lover.

Rintarou’s camera app is ready like a sword leaving its sheathe, and all it needs now is to put an opponent to his knees, blade glinting, so he does what he does best. Rintarou becomes the bane of this game easily enough.

He presses the shutter button continuously the closer he walks, and a few jovial moments of torment on Rintarou’s end is all it takes for Atsumu to finally, _finally_ look at him with a scowl.

He answers back quickly with a smile as infuriating. “For a person who just stopped you from overworking yourself, that’s a _mean_ greeting, Atsumu.” he says, deleting the pictures on his phone. Then he looks up, “Practice ended early,”

Atsumu pushes past him, clicking his tongue and blinking out solid emotion as he cleans up whatever was left of his extra practice. He’s quiet today. The type of nauseating silence with tension settling on his back like it’s hugging him from behind.

Rintarou scrunches his nose. “Hey,” he calls out. Atsumu pointedly ignores him, and something unnecessary flares inside Rintarou. “Atsumu,” Blond hair, gold-and-red sights. 

The slow set of the sun today does not assist in the soon-to-be eruption of _something_ if Atsumu doesn’t fess up and let him know whatever is going on with him. Because, they talk. In voices, in actions. They talk, and they listen and not like _this_.

For force and stubbornness and rage to pay a visit in the impromptu script of a play they’re at, it stays immovable— stuck somewhere along Atsumu’s hurried, aggressive actions while cleaning up and Rintarou’s unrelenting gaze as he watches, thinks. A king against a king in this type of setting was a gamble you’d never want to bet in to see who beheads who.

“Thought ya went home, Suna,” And, there it beholds itself. Atsumu _was_ angry about something. Frustrated, maybe. His voice interlaces with unshed tears.

Red and orange and gold still paint the gym as if time hadn’t slowed enough. Red, orange, gold, yet Atsumu is crowned with the blueness of a fire, forceful and violent. Rintarou sees there is no liquid that can calm this wildfire yet. Well, he supposes the time is ripe to have a waltz with a burning inferno.

“Hey, pretty boy,” Rintarou calls out, watching as Atsumu walks away and throws another silent shoulder his way. Rage. A beautiful thing to ignore. A devastating thing to act on impulse.

Rintarou walks closer until he furls his fist against cotton black with Atsumu facing him, hands dropping the volleyballs to grasp themselves on Rintarou’s wrist. “I said, _hey pretty boy!_ ” And, huh, should he really feel the pride swelling in his chest as Atsumu’s face gets graced by all the blood rushing to his cheeks?

Atsumu stays silent, wide-eyed and lips parted. Rintarou wants to smash them close with his own, perhaps. 

“Shut _up,_ will ya?” A game, was it? Anger restrained was frustration in fruition. Frustration begets whims. Whims are always acted upon, and Rintarou does not waste a chance as he ungracefully pushes Atsumu against the closest wall, hands moving to hold his hips.

A stare, dead in the ditches of sunflower eyes. “Shut up, huh?” 

“ _Yes_ , shut yer mouth, Suna,”

“You never call me Suna. Stop it,”

A laugh resonates in his ears before Rintarou registers the warmth on the back of his neck; Atsumu’s fingers place themselves there and have the audacity to burn a mark, and he smirks. _Annoying_.

“Hey, _Rin-ta-rou_ ,” He says, closer this time. Rintarou does not answer— cannot, actually. There are words being caressed on his lips, words he’d allow to tear him apart and eat him raw. 

Through hazy eyes, Atsumu looks gold and blue in this light as he retracts himself from Rintarou’s space, a smirk on his face. What an _asshole,_ he thinks _._ The response comes as a grip tighter on the other’s hips. 

“You stink, you know?” Rintarou smiles at him. He brings a hand to card through Atsumu’s hair, pushing back the strands that stick to his forehead.

“D’ya always hafta ruin the moment, huh?” Atsumu laughs, places a hand under Rintarou’s chin. “But, yer still gonna kiss me, right?” He asks.

“Depends,” Rintarou mutters. “Are you still angry?”

“Frustrated, yeah,”

Then, there’s a thumb that presses itself plush against his bottom lip. Rintarou does not mind, thoughts only infected with the divinity of this boy in his hands. Fearless boy, what would you taste like? Twilight, iron, hellfire.

“Yer wearing gloss today,” Atsumu mentions quietly, eyes focusing on his lips. A swipe, and the thumb is being brought to him, tongue darting to lick it and eyes moving to meet Rintarou. “Strawberry?”

Rintarou wants to cut through his chest cavity, see if the mischief will come spilling out. His hands move up, under the black shirt, and place themselves firm on Atsumu’s waist. His hands start to spread starving frostbites on warm skin. _Oh_ , how he hopes Atsumu burns under his touch. If he were to let the rage of a king consume him, then he might as well drag the royal himself. “And you?”

“Find out, Rintarou,” and Atsumu’s lips attach themselves to his own. _French vanilla_ . He smiles, pushing further and closer and _oh_. This boy in his grasp does not know how to calm the revolution stirring in him; Atsumu does not like to lose, from the way he brings out war in his kisses to the way his knuckles find the sheer audacity to caress cheekbones. Rintarou can compete. He always can and always will.

There’s a dance inside the ballroom of their mouths. A choreograph that leaves them craving and craving.

Rintarou finds the soft bite of teeth on his bottom lip. His already half-heartedly put on tie becoming loosened, two buttons being opened in his uniform. A hand cards through his hair and pulls him away, head tilting with his neck bared.

Atsumu shoots a dazed smirk at him, lips shinier that it makes Rintarou lick his own. _French vanilla_ , he thinks. _French vanilla and strawberry._

Curious boy, his mind tells him. Calculate your chaos, and bring them out in aggression. Press your lips against his, engulf him whole. He does. With divinity and ichor staining his very being, Rintarou replies with the same fervor of a half-god trying to prove himself superior against the unbreakable threadings of fate itself.

Rintarou’s hands push up his shirt. _Atsumu has dimples on his back,_ he thinks. _Dimples of Venus_. Funny how a Roman goddess of love leaves a print on Atsumu as if he wasn't born with a heart worn on his sleeve, a heart he continues to tear pieces off of to share like macarons under a picnic under a cloudy sky. So, Rintarou leaves his fingertips and palms to meet skin, softer and hotter than his as he grazes it— pushing two fingers on the twin dimples just right that Atsumu whines against his neck and melts further in him.

Rintarou smiles.

Now, tell me, how many seconds does it take for humans to run out of oxygen? Rintarou tells himself he doesn’t know nor does he have enough energy in himself to care, but Atsumu will not allow him this usual luxury at all.

He pulls away first, eyes closed and forehead resting against the other. “ _Tsumu_ ,” he whispers out. Eyes open, he meets dilated pupils as his hands comb through blond hair and drops to caress Atsumu’s cheek. “Breathe,”

A hum. A moment. Two. Three. “‘Tarou,” a hand travels to his hair and pulls. “ _Again_ ,” Atsumu mutters through mingling breaths. Ask and you shall receive. 

Rintarou meets him, kisses slowly and teasingly. Atsumu retaliates, lips bringing in a new tidal wave of hunger. Rintarou hears a tiny growl, and Atsumu pulls away again with a glare.

“Kiss me like you fucking mean it, loser,” he hisses, nose scrunched before pulling him in again.

_Is this a challenge?_ he muses to himself. He’s already memorized the hunger on Atsumu’s lips, the desperate breaths intermingling with him. But, Rintarou refuses to drown, keeps the pace as it is until Atsumu gives in to him again like it’s inevitable or something.

Mouth from mouth to jaw and neck. Open. Kisses on the expanse of where shoulder starts to meet his neck that elicits a shuddering gasp from Atsumu. There’s a pull on his hair. “Rin,” Atsumu mutters. Ignored. Another pull, more forceful. “ _Rin,”_

Rintarou pulls away, hums, observes. Here it was— the undisclosed art of rage kissing a boy, monster, half-god, _Atsumu._ Swollen lips, tousled hair, flushed cheeks. There’s purple blooming right there on the juncture where neck meets collarbones. 

One of his hands has moved to pay with the hair near his nape. The other going on the skin of his back, moving up and up and _up_ along the column on his spine. Softly. Gently. _Touch me_. Rintarou wishes in his mind. Atsumu quietly follows— grazing his fingertips down and tracing circles on his waist.

Atsumu’s eyes still follow his every movement. He has dimples on his cheeks even if he doesn’t smile.

“Oh,” Rintarou murmurs, voice so soft that it’s fragile against even Atsumu steadying breaths. And, he kisses the corner of his lips almost instinctively. He pulls away again, and Atsumu looks at him doe-eyed and waiting.

Rintarou’s hand travels to cup his jaw and hold Atsumu as if he’s trying to inject something more than emotion. He moves to drag his lips on his jaw like a caress. Slowly, humming— jaw to the shell of his ear.

Then, he pulls away.

“Well, I think that’s enough, ‘Tsumu,” Rintarou grins. “Let’s go home, yeah?” He laughs out, breathy and soft and teasing. Cunning will not leave him just like the french vanilla taste pressed to his lips.

Atsumu groans, golden eyes hidden under dropped lids. A quiet thump comes from the impact of his head hitting the wall behind him as he narrows his eyes into a glare directed to Rintarou. “Yer just gonna leave me here, ain’tcha?”

“Hurry up, and maybe I’ll kiss you again or something," Rintarou grins at him. "Do you have your balm with you? It tastes good.”

Calloused fingertips, soft palms. He grabs Atsumu’s hand, without hesitation, and pulls him away from the wall. Atsumu looks at him again with a new focus lighting his eyes. A smile tugs on Atsumu's lips. He never pulls back. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you sm akiyo and mau for ur constant support. ily always mwa


End file.
